


A Single Future

by valis2



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-04
Updated: 2006-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valis2/pseuds/valis2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Severus contemplates the death of Harry Potter at the hands of Voldemort. Many, many thanks to Rexluscus, who was tortured for hours about this poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Future

All sealed now,  
it ends with a casual flash of green,  
black hair in the snow.  
Muggle shoes under his robes. Stubborn to the last.

Severus feels the heaviness in the air. There is a word to describe it but he cannot think of it at the moment.

He is still here.

The world no longer spins on two axes. There is only one future now.

The prophecy, the prophecy, it was always the prophecy, tolling in his mind. One or the other, he always knew, but he kept both at bay, he juggled with skulls, there was always a way out.

There is laughter, shrill, the air vibrates with it, and now he is turning, looking into the face of madness.

Red, there is red, a knowing tide, drawing him in, washing him out into a claret sea. One drop won't hurt, one wave won't drown, but each surge is higher than the last, and he is floundering. The whirling eye is delighted, tremulous with victory. The others are crowing, their masks discarded, while he drowns, falling to his knees.

There was no phoenix. No last moment of faith, rewarded. Potter is utterly still.

It has happened. It is happening. There is the taste of brick.

Severus thinks that there never was a prophecy. There never was a chance. This was the only outcome.

Time and pain have snagged their hooks into his tongue, and he kneels, mute, as waves of sound thrash about him. His knees are cold, wet, he is shaking, and there is no word for this.

He almost feels the lance of shame, but he lost that long ago, over and over again, at Godric's Hollow, in the Headmaster's office, kissing the filthy hem of a robe. It can't be piercing him now.

Tonight there will be a fire, a signal. Rising, red-flamed. The Order is swept away. There is only the Dark Lord. There is only this, now.

There is supposed to be a way out but he can no longer feel it under his fingertips. It has brushed past him like ashes, like a singed moth, and he does not understand how it all came to pass. One decision flowed into another like water; his hands were always ahead of him.

He thinks he was betrayed.

At night he stumbles up the stairs to the bedroom. His bedroom, now. The bed is no refuge. He lies down on the rug. His heart hammers against his ribs, contracting and filling, raging and freezing.

His dreams turn monochromatic.  
The green has bled out.

He is still here.


End file.
